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niamh
Poems
Oct 2015
The Singer
They said he had a face
Only a mother could love
And the clothes on his
Back were torn.
His skin was pock marked
And his back was bent.
His teeth had rotted
In his head.
But when he sat
At a piano and sang,
The notes reached into
Your ribcage,
Crushing your heart
With an ivory key.
His beauty could bring
You to your knees.
Written by
niamh
Ireland
(Ireland)
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